Monster
by Elizabeth ArStrange
Summary: Families are meant to stay together. When they don't, monsters are created. Post-Hellboy 2
1. Locked Out

**Monster**

_Families are meant to stay together. When they don't, monsters are created._

Disclaimer: I do not profit from this piece in any way. All non-original characters belong to their original creator(s), I simply borrow them to play out my fandom fueled fantasies.

Monster is a post-Hellboy 2, _mostly _movie-verse based fanfiction.

* * *

This story, like all others, begins with love. Love between a woman and, because origins are not nearly as important as what you choose to become, a man. Their love was not perfect, they often squabbled and were far too capable of jealousy, but it came close because the woman was willing to risk the entire world, even her unborn children, to retrieve the other from the realm of the dead. The man, when given the chance, had done nearly the same.

On one such occasion, not too many years ago, the woman, Elizabeth Sherman, was told by Death herself that she would suffer more than anyone as a result of her actions. In time, that would prove true and Ms. Sherman, mother of the great demon Anung un Rama's spawn, would become the conduit through which the end of all we know could be achieved. By her husband's right hand the Ogdru Jahad and their 369 children would be released upon the universe. Perhaps a new world would rise from its' ashes, and perhaps not. But for now, Mrs. Elizabeth Sherman, Liz, wife of Hellboy, was nothing more than an expecting mother of twins. Albeit, where these children are concerned, little is ever _that_ simple.

* * *

"What? Are you serious?"

For once, the quick talking bureaucrat, Tom Manning, was lost for words. Aghast, he could only accept as a black utility belt and Hellboy's revolver, the Samaritan, was shoved firmly into his sausage-fingered grasp. Liz followed suit, dumping her own equipment into his work weary arms. As she walked briskly by, she couldn't help but smirk.

"Looks that way, doesn't it?" Liz had replied, barely pausing to give him a sideways glance.

Or at least, it had _looked_ that way.

Sure, at first things had been great. Wanna stay in tonight? Why not, it's not like the city depends on us. Want to go to the movies? No problem, who's there to tell us otherwise? Want to- Well… no, it had been a problem. Because even if word was out, and the Bureau had gone public, and Jimmy Kimmel was poking fun at Abe's 'breathing apparatus' on national television, it didn't make them okay. It didn't stop the cashier from almost choking to death on his gum, or the frightened concession stand attendant from spilling their drinks, twice, and it certainly didn't help them get jobs. Liz had applied to thirteen different places before she found an interviewer that didn't recognize her, and even then she'd been all but marketable. Minimally educated and with no employment on record, about the only thing that _was_ certain about her — at least in any potential employer's eyes — was her impending pregnancy. A month-and-a-half of paid leave just _waiting _to happen. Not likely. And besides, though they may not have noticed within the plushy padded walls of the BPRD, times were tough. The economy was down and open jobs were nearly nonexistent. There just wasn't a place for people whose resumes included 'skilled at translating ancient and magical languages' and 'occult experience' in the day's job market. Eventually, for the sake of their collective sanity, the hunt became a game.

Who could fill out the most applications in one day?

Who would be the first to get all the way through an entrance interview?

Who could feed their family?

By the end, Red beat her tally by 3. He'd tried everything, no holds barred, from the very beginning. And what had it gotten him? Three half finished interviews, an unconscious — albeit elderly — interviewer, thirty-seven unreturned calls, five flat out no's, and, on their last day… one reply.

Liz remembered it like yesterday. Thinking back to that call though, to their alleyway apartment, wasn't a pleasant thing.

* * *

Their new home had been simple, light blue walls with cheap tan carpeting, even in the kitchen. Like most, it faced the street. Liz gave a dark sort of laugh as she thought up her own sales pitch:

'_In addition to surplus carpeting, it comes equipped with the most picturesque view of your neighbor's apartment, an ocean of cracked asphalt, and a stop sign bent at a nearly _perfect_ ninety degree angle. And all from your own couch!'_

No.

'Brimming with character' was how the landlord had actually described it and, all things considered, it was a pretty nice place. The single bedroom was spacious (though admittedly water-stained), room enough for the odd couple and their coming newborns, and the unit had even come partially furnished. As a whole though, her favorite thing had been the large loft style window that occupied the north wall. No matter where Liz stood, whether she was cooking a dinner of rubbery macaroni or simply lounging on the couch, she could see outside. Somehow it felt like that was good for the babies, even if the view did stink.

But then, there'd been something else too… Despite all of that good, there was something off about the place. It wasn't until looking over the lease that Liz really noticed it though; she was signing for 23 Bromwick Place, apartment number 9-44. The pen had froze in her hand, halfway through a cursive a.

Bromwick… 9-44… Or had it read Bromwich, England _1944_?

Before she'd a chance to consider it further, Hellboy's bright left hand had closed over hers.

"We have to Liz." He'd said, speaking quietly enough that even the landlord across the table likely couldn't hear him. She knew he was right of course, they couldn't _afford_ to walk away from this place — not now, probably not ever — but the coincidence still hurt (literally, she felt something at the surface of her stomach pinch).

_We have to._

With a sideways look to Hellboy, she completed her signature from the first a. 'Beth Sherman'; it looked disjointed and wrong next to the previous script. Biting her lip, she'd slid the manila folder containing their lease across the table and stood from her seat.

"It's _nothin'_." HB had assured her, giving her hand a squeeze. Then they'd left.

But it didn't always feel like nothing. The thought of the address seeming to line up so perfectly, of any kind of predetermined path, made Liz sick inside (and not in a pregnant woman kind of way). Whenever she saw it, the words of Death arose in her mind.

_You will suffer more than anyone_. Definitely _not_ words conducive to baby-making.

Fortunately for Red and Liz both, by their second week home — or at least, that was what they hoped it would become — the address had almost entirely slipped their minds. No hidden trap doors, no poltergeists; the house was fine. And besides, they had other things to worry about now, _real _things.

And that leads back to the phone call. Back to the last straw.

If she remembered correctly — and she did — they'd just come back from the grocery store, from spending their last few dollars on a half-gallon of milk and store brand cereal. Never a pleasant experience. Liz remembered her exact words even now…

* * *

"Did you hear back from that last one Red?" Her words were punctuated by two violent jerks of the doorknob. Jammed shut.

_Geeze, this thing practically locks itself. We don't even _need_ the key anymore. _(Which was good, because they'd lost their copy about a week ago.)

Without answering, Hellboy came to her side and took the knob in his own hand, the left one. Giving his usual smug smile, he tugged upwards. Nada.

"Nah babe, not yet. But I've got a good feeling bout' this one." His voice broke into grunts as he continued to yank at the stubborn knob. "They're… gunna… call... soon!" There was a violent crack somewhere inside the door but, other than that, no signs of movement.

It was _definitely_ mocking him.

"Dammit!"A flicker of frustration, at far more than just the door, pulsed through his veins and Hellboy did the only thing he could think of. He kicked the door in.

As his booted-hoof made contact with the left half of the door, the half closest to the hinges, it swung inwards and slammed into the empty wall behind it. The other half, though, wasn't so lucky. Unsupported by the rest of the building, it snapped away from him and practically flew into the darkened apartment. The now empty doorframe sagged from the wall, chipped off completely in several places.

_Damn, what a punt! I should go out for football or something- _His thoughts were broken by a heavy sigh behind him.

"Nice HB. Now every mugger, thief, and psycho is going to be headed this way." Rolling her eyes, Liz took the small paper bag and jug of milk from Hellboy's oversized red hand and passed through the empty frame into the kitchen. She dropped them unceremoniously onto the abused cedar table next to several unopened, but official looking envelopes. Liz tried her best, but she couldn't help skimming the face of each as she turned back to face him. The vast majority of them — something she was strangely thankful for when she stopped to consider what the _minority_ consisted of — were white, yellow, and red bills. The others, all heavy cardboard-brown envelopes, were taped shut with wide yellow strips of packaging tape. The most modestly packed envelope had been wrapped six times with the stubborn adhesive. These, though only the first had actually been opened, contained the case files of every mission, incident, and accident that had occurred since Hellboy and Liz had left the BPRD.

Most were failures and, though they didn't know it, the third and fourth contained multiple certificates of death.

_Couldn't even wait a month to start sending them either, could he. _Hellboy noted, contemplating them with a darkly distasteful look. Distance, as it turns out, doesn't always make the heart grow fonder. They'd been away from Director Tom Manning for nearly half a year now, and Hellboy still couldn't stand the thought of him.

_The brown-nosing bast-_

By that point, Liz had turned back to face him. Hands on her hips, her left hand conspicuously bare, she was contemplating himwithher own dark look. Hellboy though, was too busy with his own thoughts — very enjoyable thoughts — to notice.

_Lookin' _nice_ Liz. _Hellboy thought, unable to resist enjoying the view. Her hair was getting longer again, probably shoulder-length already, and had taken on a slight wave since the start of her pregnancy. And, of course, there was that too. The kids were _definitely_ showing now and something about that… Well, it _wasn't_ bad.

_Only five months old and already they're ahead of the rest_, he doted. His heart swelled with pride, but an expectant look from Liz brought him back to the present.

Apparently she'd been talking; now it was his turn to contribute to the conversation.

Arms half raised, he crossed the brown carpeting toward her. To be honest, he couldn't be _exactly _sure what she'd been talking about — after all, he'd been a little distracted —, but he could guess close enough.

"Aw come on Liz! You and I both know I can stop anything that comes through that door."

Liz raised her left eyebrow doubtfully — evidently that _wasn't _exactly what she'd been talking about — but, rather than argue, she simply shook her head and looked at him with dryly playful eyes.

"_Anything_?"

"Anything." Having made his approach, Hellboy wrapped his arms slowly around her and pulled her close. Or as close as was possible nowadays. With Liz's forehead resting softly on his chest, her hands tenderly cupping her swelling abdomen, everything seemed quiet. Manageable. The light that filtered down through gray clouds seemed almost otherworldly and the harsh sounds of city life fell on deaf ears. As the muted songs of urban birds amplified in their minds, they seemed to be transported somewhere else. Somewhere they truly wanted to be. The peaceful cottage Hellboy had promised so many months ago. Crisp green grass sprouted up around them and they could tell that there were hundreds and hundreds of miles between them and anyone who would dare disturb their family. As warm stone walls began to stack up around them and smooth floorboards appeared beneath their feet, Liz's voice pierced their shared illusion. It shattered into dust.

"Look, Red? It's not really that big a deal… If they don't call. I mean the janitor we saw back there, the one with the curly mullet, he didn't exactly seem like he was having the time of his life." Still leaning against him, Liz hadn't met his eyes. "There's gotta be something better out-"

"I'm not gunna be a 'janitor' Liz, I applied to be a _Custodial Assistant." _Removing his more agile hand from her side, Hellboy gently lifted her chin until their eyes finally met. His — though yellow, a calling card of his demonic heritage — twinkled with light humor. "There's gotta be a difference."

At that, Liz couldn't help but smile a little in return. "All I'm saying is, it's not the end of the world," poor word choice, she noted, "if they don't c-" Three mechanical rings punched through the air. As one, the pair jarred to a halt. About four feet away, their grungy corded phone rang a fourth time.

_Could it be?_

In an instant, Hellboy's cocky, self assured smile returned full force. A triumphant fire came alight in his eyes and his teeth seemed to shine. For the second time, his hand came away from her; it rose up into a playfully accusing finger.

"You doubted me."

Liz's mouth opened wordlessly and her eyes were wide. "I did, I did not!" HB just smirked, his long red tail waving proudly behind him. Smirking, she crossed her arms above her imposing tummy and pulled away from his single handed grip. "Just answer the phone before they hang up dummy."

"Right. On it." With all the energy and momentum that would've normally been directed towards a deservingly intense mission, perhaps a Kraken or particularly enraged pack of ghouls, he rounded Liz and all but dove for the phone. His thoughts abuzz with possibilities, Hellboy snatched up the receiver between the seventh and eight ring. Suddenly, as his apprehension peaked, his mind went blank.

"Uhhh…" He groaned, lamely attempting to stall the caller.

_Dammit, dammit, dammit! What'm I suppose to say again? What're you suppose ta say when-_

An arms-length away, Liz filled in the blanks.

"_Hello_." She mouthed slowly, her hands prompting him to go on.

"Ah, right." Hellboy blustered. "Hello?"

On the other end of line, if their voice was any indication, was either a junkie or someone who was even more out of it than he was. Regardless, the voice brought to mind scraggly blonde locks, adult acne, and four days worth of unshaved facial hair.

"Hey man, uh, I gotta application here with your, uh, name on it. You did, erm-ah, apply at Argo's Auto Repair, right?"

`"Yeah." acknowledged Hellboy, his smile stretching to include all but the back- most of his great white teeth. Something about this guy was giving him 60's flashbacks, but that hardly mattered now.

_This is the job! _He thought. _Thank you God! Thank you-_ Oblivious to Hellboy's inner monologue, the hippie began to speak again.

"Well then, ah…" a slight shuffling of papers and a quiet cough could be head in the background. Then, suddenly, his voice took on a strangely deliberate tone, "Welcome sir to the AAR family. Here are Argo's Auto-" Too excited to wait for the man's obviously prewritten speech to finish, Hellboy cradled the phone in the crook of his shoulder and ran, as fast as the cord would allow, to Liz. Without a hint of effort, he lifted her- pregnant tummy and all- into a massive but supporting bear hug. Face alight with surprise, her toes hung an inch above the ground.

"I did it Liz, I did it! The job's mine, ah God!" He rejoiced. Still in his arms, Liz began to push back on his shoulders.

"Geeze, put me down Red! You're gunna hurt the kids!" She exclaimed, bending back to look him in the eyes. Despite her fear, she couldn't help but smile and her joy only grew as, shocked by his disregard for their safety, he gently placed Liz and the kids back on solid ground. He'd done it! He'd really done it!

_Everything, _she realized, _is going to be okay._ No more blackouts, no more rent-past-due notes; no more sleepless nights.

_No more cheap-ass Cheerio knockoffs! _She cheered. God, she'd been craving the real things for weeks now.

Emboldened by the thought, she stood up on tippy-toes and kissed HB full on. The half-demon, pleasantly surprised and happy for it, returned her advance in kind. Fortunately though, the lump of baby between them, which kept the lovers at what most middle school teachers would consider a 'respectable distance', and the feeling of the receivers cool plastic mouth on their cheeks kept them at bay. Their kiss lasted only a moment and Hellboy, though his gaze never broke from Liz's own, quickly returned to his call. On the other end, the hippie was silent. Nerves prickled down his neck, but Hellboy was determined to stay positive. This feeling, it was too good to lose. Too damn good.

"Still there?" he asked, his free hand flexing slightly. For a beat, the man remained silent. Maybe he'd-

"Dude…" he responded, his voice a blend of incredulity and - it wasn't, it couldn't be- fear. His well of 'uhs' run dry, he opted instead for a stutter. "Dude, you're not the… the, the red guy, are you?" The smile fell from Hellboy's face. Now a foot away and able to hear only half the conversation, Liz's faultered.

"_So what if I am_?" HB's voice was little more than a whisper, but threatening none the less. On the other end, the hippie was getting louder with every word. He was frantic.

"Dude, dude I'm sorry!" He blustered. "I can't give, no way man, just _no_." He paused for a breath, seemingly to engage in a wordless grunt-and-point match with one of the men around him. It ended quickly when the phone was handed off to the companion. In the background, Hellboy could just pick up a muttered 'Friggin' monster man!' from the hippie. For a moment, HB's tongue seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth. Then the second man spoke, barely giving himself the time to finish before hanging up the phone.

"Look, good luck with your girlfriend. We. Can't. Help. You."

"Hey!" Hellboy cried, his voice very clearly found. "You can't just, HEY!" All that answered was the dial tone. _The last straw._

_These people, these… _He couldn't even come up with a _word _apt to describe them. _They're scum, they're bigots, they're sons of-_

"BASTARDS!" He bellowed, his voice wild, guttural, ashis blood boiled over. He could feel it. His pulse was in his ears, in his hands, in his- Oh he was gunna find that guy and tear him a new one. And that's if he was lucky, the things he was gunna- Blinded with rage, he hurled the phone with all his strength at the nearest wall. It, like their dream world, shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.

Bits of plastic, metal, and wiring rained down on the counter, into the scummy sink, and onto the carefully swept floor. Breathing heavily, mismatched fists clenched tightly enough to turn the left too into stone, he stumbled about in a circle- a stranger in his own home- searching for something to destroy. Something to tear, rip, break, _annihilate_. Anything! Instead, his stare — fit to match the mug of any gargoyle —fell on Liz. Elizabeth Sherman and his unborn children. The fight was ripped out of him. HB's arm's fell to his sides, stationary and limp.

_What have I done?_ Hellboy asked himself, remaining unresponsive even as Liz approached, an ever too familiar frown marking her perfect face. _What have I done to you babe? _Trapped somewhere within himself, he was completely oblivious to what should've been, perhaps, the most comforting and all accepting hug he would ever receive. Instead, as he looked down onto Liz's rounded stomach, he saw in himself his children's future. _What have I done to you both?_

It was clear now, indisputable, a fact. And with no one here but the woman who so blindly loved him — and blindly was by far the most accurate term — he knew he would never hear the truth. He was a freak, an outcast, and he was dragging Liz, his kids, and everyone down with him.

Still folded around him, such ideas came nowhere close to permeating Liz's thoughts. People were all the same to her. She just didn't get why that seemed to be so _difficult_ for everyone else to understand.

Without loosening her hold, she looked back on the scarred and abused cedar table. The rainbow of unpaid bills were first to meet her gaze, but she focused mainly on the bloated brown envelopes, the yellow tape. Though there was no written note within them, nothing but case files and official documentation, she knew what their message was. Without words, Manning — and all of the Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense — was saying this:

Come back. We need you. We're screwed.

She hated to say it, to even think it, but the words came out regardless. Not moving to meet his eyes — she couldn't stand to see defeat where there had just been so much pride and triumph — she spoke instead into his chest.

"Red," her words were quiet, strained "I think we need to go back."

TO BE CONTINUED…

* * *

Thank you so much for reading, reviews and (more than anything) constructive criticism would be very much appreciated. Simply knowing that someone's read this and might consider reading future chapters would extremely encouraging!

~LittleSun1


	2. Behind Closed Doors

**Monster**

Disclaimer: I do not profit from this piece in any way. All non-original characters belong to their original creator(s), I simply borrow them to play out my fandom fueled fantasies.

AN: Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter! Your encouraging words meant a lot to me, and did even more in the way of getting Behind Closed Doors out this quickly (and… I just realized it's been over half a year since I first published *whoops*). A special thanks to Joelle Hart for editing this and the previous chapter!

* * *

Towering sky scrapers and glinting window panes reflected the quiet stares of a billion stars. Below them, the city streets roared with endless life. Impatient drivers hammered on hate-worn horns while bleak faced delivery boys handed over cold pizzas — there was no real reason to hurry, thirty minute deals were a thing of the past — and feral cats screeched and yowled at the moon, each other, and nothing. Tiny white lights glittered on pointed fir trees and framed store sills.

Six stories up, the pale haired girl turned from the frosted window, her blue eyes nearly reflecting the rich red of the opposing wall, and strode across the room. The lights were off, but the space was faintly lit by both the steady shine of starlight and slivers of warm florescence from all four sides of the loosely hinged door. She'd only been here a few months, just settled in really, and already the place — though bare — felt entirely like home. Her back to the city sights, she could feel cool air sweeping off the floor-to-ceiling windows and up onto her upper back and calves. It was refreshing. The sharp bite of cold on her flesh made her alert and on edge; excited in every way.

She stepped quietly up to her room's dark-wood door. Embedded in its face was a copper peephole, the last remnant of a nosy boss. It suited the girl (though she was nearly a woman); the simply perverse act of watching people— of eavesdropping, or whatever the sight equivalent, on some of the most rich and prominent citizenry she'd ever seen in one place— was… was like the gooseflesh tingling up her legs, through her spine and body. Like that, only warmer, _better_. Really, she would've had it placed anyway; it was good to know what was happening out there.

Breathing slowly, her hands pressed spread-fingered to either side of the peephole, the blond peered through the glass center. The room before her was at least three times longer than it was wide — a large office space in a past life — and entirely windowless. It's mid-height ceilings attested to what it'd been before the change; they were high enough that the space had likely still felt airy filled with cubicles, but the yellow-stained ceiling tiles had been way up on her kill list; exchanged for sheltering mahogany beams within the first couple of weeks. The way the light played on them, creating darkness and patterns where there had never been before, was perfect for the place. With those in mind, the dirty old office had been reshaped into something of eloquence and beauty; an old fashioned smoking club. Professional, exclusive… light-yellowed sconces and fat white candles; those said it all. They cast the room into alternating pools of dim glow and dimmer shadows, the kind of light their cliental (their comrades, their brethren? She didn't know quite what to call them yet; if, at this point, they were anything.) most preferred under such circumstance.

The area closest to her was occupied by refurbished poker tables — square and round intermingled — and matching, low-backed chairs. Two self-service bars, made of rich, red-black mahogany, lined the walls on either side. Their open fronts displayed glittering glass bottles, crystal flasks, and row upon row of ageless labels. They had no permit to sell (or, as they were, provide) alcohol, but with these men and women in attendance, no one would bother to check. They were men of business, military, and congress. The others, few in numbers and tenfold in power, were impossible not to recognize. Such people were truly above the law, able to escape all meaningful blame with a sheepish smile and a public apology. The effort to obtain a license would've been wasted.

Sighing with a sort of thoughtful content, her blue eyes cat-like in their determination, the girl turned from her private peephole. On any other night, that section of the club would've been at the heart of the action: far from bustling, but full of quiet words, hidden faces, and the hunched shoulders of conspiring men. The aroma of warming alcohol in the air, the pungent stench of paranoia and uncertainty slowly, _slowly_ fading… but not on that night.

Tonight it's dark in there.

On this night, cold as it is outside, in there it is hot. Hot with fear, indignation, the mule-like resolve of someone whose ignorance — no, self-induced _delusion _— has just been shattered. In there, it's hot with change and, soon, their heat will be harnessed into _direction_.

Just beyond her door, affluent men and women of America (or at least of that small portion of the East Coast) sit packed into two deep rows of long wooden benches, like those in any church. At their head, atop a narrow stage, a man with an even narrower nose and eyes just a bit too big for his face stands behind a podium, laying out the truths of their reality. On the far wall, slides flicker and twitch through the lens of a rented projector; they are the only light in this dark.

With each images thrown to the crowd, another brick comes down, another delusion is dissolved. Telekinesis. Healing factor. Human flight. There's video and pictures, even interviews ("I don't like the term firestarter. I just don't"), but that's far from all.

"_So_ far." continues the narrow-nosed man. His voice is steady, almost passive, bored; he doesn't need to put on a tone to get his point across. "They hide from us…" He raises his hand, motions to the back wall with a flourish.

Trolls, vampires, and fairies — monsters; many dead, but most in mid-attack — paint the screen. The cold techniques of costume and of photo manipulation have come so far, many will be tempted to pass these off as hoaxes (it's a lie, it's got to be a lie) but there's something about them… the brutality, the alternating terror and hate in people's eyes, that make it seems real.

Or perhaps it's the fact that, when confronted with this version of reality, they begin to remember that stranger, that empty eyed somebody, on the street corner. That pair of eyes watching them from beneath the bridge. That strange little _thing _that someone had always been able to do…

Some will walk away, that's for certain, but they will _all_ remember. Or rather, they'll begin to see what they once chose to forget.

* * *

Unable to help herself, the girl looked once again through the peephole. Edged the door open and slipped soundlessly into the dark edges of their quiet club. As the last slide faded away, there was total silence. No one breathed. The lights remained dead. When she could no longer hold her breath, a single, weepy woman — some politician's wife, undoubtedly — spoke.

"Why…" she struggled for words, "why did you show us that?" There was another, shorter pause before a handful of people called out in agreement. In that moment, they were completely naked; money and rank stripped away, they were entirely… vulnerable. Finally the big-eyed man answered.

"Because, there is a problem. They," he tilted his head to the projector, "are it. They kill, they maraud, they live beneath our streets. They are inhuman creatures masquerading as men. Completely. Un. Civilized." His voice kicked up for the first time with true feeling, as he ended it sounded as if he was going to spit. Realizing this — being such a speaker as he was, the girl was sure he did — he took a breath to compose himself. His wrinkled fingers came to rest on the front lip of his podium, knuckles white with unexpressed fevor.

"We have gathered you here, the affluent and powerful of our great city, to return the world to the way it once was… if only in your minds." The man's voice was heavy with bridled condescension, but a clearer, previously unheard tone suggested pure altruism; that he only wanted to help, only wanted to make things better again. Only, only, only. And that, the girl was certain, was the _only _thing any of them were going to hear. "You see, my people, we have the solution. We have the solution to our Inhuman Problem."

All in about the same heartbeat, everyone in the room took in a breath. They were right in the palm of his hand— precisely where these people, in their time of confusion and turbulence, felt they needed to be. It was exactly where they, the narrow man, and _him_, and herself, wanted them— if only he didn't stretch them too far…

"All we need, all we have to ask for, is your help."

And of course, he didn't. After all, he'd had more than enough practice— already, this was the third gathering— he practically had it down to an art form. Being naturally manipulative, pervasively charismatic (though in a way that made the hair on her neck rise, the back of her stomach tingle as if it was trying to inch away) did everything to seal the deal. Bated breaths were released, the air seemed lighter than just a second ago and, at once, the girl seemed a woman. Her face stretched into a smile — only narrow-nose could see it, all others were too distracted to look in her direction — and she returned to the backroom. Shutting the door quietly behind her, she took in a great breath and leaned her forehead gratefully against a crimson walls. It was met with little resistance, for the crimson was in fact a great and familiar tapestry; one hung proudly on each side of the light wood door. Breathing slowly, she fingered the soft fabric of the one before her, ran her long fingernails around one sloping half of the depicted golden gear.

_Our enemies shall be destroyed, and from the ashes… a new Eden will arise. _The words rang through her mind, but they were not her own. They were _his_. Still smiling, she answered in kind; invariably, they 'spoke' to one and other in strange, almost prayerful voices. He the priest, and she his follower.

_The first weapon is ours, Humankind will burn them from the Earth, cleansing it of its wrongness._

He only laughed.

Sighing deeply, the Aryan woman pushed back from the wall and admired the pair of iron-black swastikas, one still rumpled from where her head last rested.

They'd received two complaints about them already; housewarming gifts from their neighbors across the way.

_Time to get some shades, hmm?_

TO BE CONTINUED…

* * *

Thanks again for reading! Please don't be put off by the lack of canon characters in this chapter, I promise they'll return to center stage in chapter three.

_~LittleSun1_


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